Gambit: Dames and Card Games
by BakedBeans 1up
Summary: The last thing a Swamp Rat expected to find up in Canada was a sweet Southern Belle.


**Note:** This is a spin-off and companion piece to _Rogue & Wolverine: Two Against the World. _It's my ambitious attempt to create some kind of MCU-style universe, with interlinked stories and cameos.

* * *

Win big in the card game? Check.

Sleep with the brunette in the black dress? Check.

Do the opposite of everything that he was supposed to do? Check. Check.

The splash of the warm morning palette stabbed at his eyes and even with his eyelids slammed shut, the light burned through his skin like it were transparent. A hard slap to his face sprung his eyelids back up, and the outlines of two men welcomed Remy LeBeau back to the cold winter world of the Canadian outback.

Here he was, kneeling next to a freshly-dug grave with his hands bound in front of him, his damp jeans sunk in to the grass sprinkled with a thin layer of frost. The open wounds stung at the slightest of twitches as he looked straight up at the nose of a handgun hovering a few inches away. The man with the weapon was Joe Wyatt, a thug whose fragile reputation had been cracking with the stress of recent events. While he had impressed the right people with his business acumen, today he was out to prove that he could get his hands dirty when things went wrong. The metal trembled gently, the numb finger glued to the trigger, and the glazed worry in his eyes told Remy that even something as small as a cough could startle the man and the weapon.

"What is wrong with you?" Joe asked him, pushing the cold metal against his forehead, "honestly. . . what's wrong with you? Why can't you do a simple thing like throw a card game? That's all you were asked, and you blew it."

"Hey—not Gambit's fault if he gets some good cards." With that comment, the weapon pushed deeper in to his skin, forcing his head to tilt back. "Seemed a shame t' waste dem."

"Well look where it's got you. You're out here, sitting next to your own grave and you're still acting like an idiot. No. You're worse than an idiot—because even idiots know about the consequences if they don't do as they're told."

The gun finally pulled away, leaving an indent above his brows. Remy blinked a few times and wrinkled his forehead. Every inch of his head hurt, and the Cajun had a long shopping list if he made it out of this situation alive. Sunglasses. Painkillers. A bag of ice. . . one day, Remy would learn not to pick fights with men that were much, much bigger than him.

The sharp-suited man crouched down to Gambit's height, having replaced the handgun with a knife. It tickled across his jawline, sending ripples of pain across his bruised features. "So you lost me and my partners a lot of money last night, and you go and sleep with the wife of a very good friend of mine. . . so I'm going to ask. . . do we cut off your fingers, or slice off that dick of yours?"

Neither option sounded appealing. "Does this 'appen before or after I get shot in de head?" Remy grimaced as the blade punctured his cheek.

"I'd tell you to grow up and take things a little more seriously, Remy, but. . ." He looked down at the shallow grave beside them. ". . .but what's the point?" Joe got to his feet and wiped away a few strands of green from his trousers.

His goon leaned forward and whispered something in to his ear, wriggling the sleeve of his suit jacket away to display a gold watch crafted by the steady hands of one of the finest artisans in Europe.

"Now?" Joe whispered, looking at his own watch. "OK. Let's get this over with."

He trotted over to Gambit through the spongy grass, lifting the heavy pistol back in to the air. "Guess we have to get this over with quick, Mr. LeBeau. Shame."

"Hold on. . . no last requests? Even murderers get a last meal. . . surely ol' Gambit is allowed to 'ave one last smoke, non?"

Joe blew out a sigh, his cold breath dancing in front of him before disappearing in to the air. He looked over at his henchman and gestured for him to fulfil Remy's final request, perhaps as a way of delaying the moment of his first kill. He picked out a packet and his fingers pinched the end of the narrow cylinder, lifting it from the pack and tossing it towards the Cajun, who watched it land a foot short.

"Merci." He reached forward with a frown, joined hands gingerly approaching the cigarette. He wiped away some of the dirt on his leg and pushed the stick between his lips. "This ain't gonna work without a lighter."

The goon's hand disappeared in to his other pocket and retrieved the golden object that he seemed so reluctant to part with. This time, the throw was accurate, and landed safely in to Remy's cupped hands. It's exterior shone from the light of the emerging sun, not a scratch graced it's preserved skin. He brought it towards the cigarette dangling from his mouth and flicked open the lid—a flame kissed the end of the stick and the nicotine began to glow.

The lid slapped shut and Remy massaged the metal with his fingertips—though the flame had began to sleep, the molecules inside began to dance, and the polished shell of the lighter glittered with a shade of pink. "Here. . ." Remy tossed the goon his lighter, the larger man scrambling to catch it before it touched the ground.

The brute juggled the lighter with oversized hands, the metal bouncing from his grip before he wrapped his thick fingers around it. Slowly, one finger at a time, he looked down at the shining object with confusion, an abnormal shimmer warming his hand. "What the hell. . ."

Remy's mouth formed in to a smirk, one which remained even though it tore at his tender wounds. "You know, mon ami, even an _idiot_ wouldn't give someone like me a lighter. . ."

The lighter fell from the henchman's grip, the journey to the ground played in slow motion, with two sets of curious eyes magnetised to the object. Their feet, having sunk an inch in to the soggy ground, remained rooted like the shrubbery of the landscape around them.

Remy's eyes scrunched tight, deep lines forming at the corners, as his shoulder dipped and hit the frosted grass with a thud. He tumbled sideways, rolling off the edge of the ground and dropped in to the hole that had been made to measure. It's depth had taken Remy by surprise, with a brief delay before the clatter of bone-to-soil. One eye pried open curiously, watching the familiar shades of purple and magenta wash over the sky, and with little lag, the wail of the explosion played right on cue.

As the display of colours faded away, Remy's lips parted and a lengthy moan hovered out of the hole. The hard floor of the grave was not usually the kind of place that provided comfort, but right now, all the Cajun wanted to do was close his eyes and rest. It could very well have been a different kind of rest, and while part of Gambit knew that he was entirely to blame for getting himself in to such a mess. . . another part of him knew this would not be the last time he would be in such a predicament, having the very same conversation in his head.

His hands lifted in unison as he looked at his watch. Three minutes past the hour.

 _Ten minutes. . ._

Everything went dark as his eyes closed.

 _Fifteen, den I'll get up. . ._

He rolled his shoulders in an attempt to soften the soil.

 _Oui. . ._

Gambit sighed with a smirk.

 _Half an hour sounds good._

x x x

The rest of the morning was a blur, a soundtrack of drums banging against his temples as the remnants of alcohol flushed from his body. The coffee on the table had cooled, tasted terrible and looked worse than he did. The liquid quivered in the mug as his trembling fingers absorbed it's dying warmth, while his other hand toyed with a half-deck of cards. He used every last bit of strength in his body to keep his head off the table.

Remy had wandered through miles of countryside with no sense of direction, the wild breeze nipping at his bruises and cuts, his hands dug deep in to his trenchcoat that fluttered behind him. When he climbed out of the hole earlier that morning, he was slapped with a double dose of disappointment. The keys to the SUV had melted amongst the bloody mess that had once been Joe—all that remained was a bit of plastic and a scorched keyring from a local strip club. However, the biggest tragedy of the explosion was the cremated remains of the nicotine that poured out of the singed packet of cigarettes found in the henchman's pocket.

Gambit had taken the hint—Canada had done everything in its power to get rid of him. Unfortunately, Remy was the kind of guy that was too stubborn to take a hint. Ahead, the door of the diner squeaked open with a sudden shriek that stabbed through him.

He rose to his feet, using the back of the booth to support his slow ascent from his seat. The change in altitude, short as it was, amplified the throbbing in his skull. He shuffled towards the counter, hand reaching out, sounds grumbling behind dry lips like an extra in a horror film. After he finally made the long journey across the short distance between seat and counter, he leaned forward and watched as the waitress grudgingly tossed her phone in her pocket to deal with his rude interruption.

"Want more coffee?"

Remy twisted his body to look back at the table, where the liquid she described as _coffee_ had barely been touched, then returned his attention back to the waitress. "Please no, I've 'ad a bad enough mornin' as it is. . ." His fingers scrubbed his stinging eyes. ". . .do you 'ave any painkillers?"

"What for?" She asked.

Remy's fingertips pinched deep in to the bridge of his nose. "Have you got any?"

"No. . ." Her gum twirled across her tongue. ". . .but we've got plenty of coffee."

His teeth clamped down on the corners of his mouth, his narrowed demonic eyes stared with an intensity that amplified the banging against his skull. With an uncharacteristic reply of silence, the Cajun spun on his heels in a less-than-graceful way, and began to return to his booth. On the way back, his attention was drawn to a young woman sitting alone at her table. She couldn't have been older than eighteen or nineteen, and here she was in the middle of nowhere, shovelling a bar of chocolate between those perfect lips of hers.

"What 'bout you?" Remy asked half-heartedly, much to the girl's confusion.

"Rmmmmph?" She woofed, her teeth climbing over large pieces of chocolate as a gloved palm stopped the fragments of candy bar from falling out.

Gambit put a hand on the back of the opposite chair to stabilise himself, while he waited for the girl's jaws to turn the chocolate in to mush.

"What happened to your face?" She asked, bluntly.

"Ah. . . Gambit don't wanna talk 'bout dat. It's a sore subject. Literally."

He got a smile out of her. "Have ya been thinkin' that one up all morning?"

It was Remy's turn to smile, which sent another zap through his forehead. He didn't mind so much. "Merci for your concern, mon ami. But don' worry. . . de other guy looks much worse."

"Wow. . ." Her fingers twiddled beneath the table. "He must look _really_ bad, then."

"Ouch." He was now leaning against the booth. "A slap would 'ave hurt less than dat."

The woman turned her head to look at the door of the bathroom for a moment, her gaze lingering a little longer than she realised.

"You wantin' to go somewhere a lil' more private, chere?"

Her head snapped back round to Gambit. "What?" She asked, an assortment of hairs falling in front of burning cheeks. "Ah mean. . . no. . . my friend's in there."

"I see." He pulled himself away from the booth. "Well I better get goin'. Gambit got t' go find somewhere t' hibernate fo' a week."

"Wait!" She squeaked, her eyes shifting sideways when she realised her volume was a bit louder than she meant it to be. "Can ah ask one more thing?"

"Is it 'bout my eyes?"

Her lips rolled together. "Yeah. . ."

Remy smirked. "Maybe dat's a story for another day."

"Canada's a pretty big place to bump in to each other again. . ."

He nodded. "Well, I hope we do." He slowly made his way to the door. "What's your name, chere?"

"M. . . Rogue." She tucked her bangs behind her ear.

"Merci, Rogue." He pushed open the door, and gave her a final smile. "Gambit don't need painkillers no more. . ."


End file.
